


Help To Lift Your Head

by OomnyDevotchka



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Colin simultaneously deals with a mental illness and a crush on his therapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help To Lift Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Moonilicious](http://moonilicious.livejournal.com/) for looking this over, and a special, special thanks to [Marink1485](http://marink1485.livejournal.com/), who helped give me that last push I needed to finish it, as well as my artist, [Disco_Mouse](http://disco-mouse.livejournal.com/), whose work can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/553675).

_Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head?_

_Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead?_

_It’s like living on a cliff side, not knowing when you’ll dive._

_Do you know, do you know, what it’s like to die alive?_

-          _“You Don’t Know” from Next to Normal_

            Colin hits rock bottom on a Thursday.

            He wakes up, and, as happens every day, he’s assaulted by his thoughts. His fears, insecurities, and shortcomings hit him like a tidal wave.

            Colin feels like he hasn’t slept at all. His eyes feel strained, like he’s been staring at a computer screen instead of the back of his eyelids for the past eight hours. He rubs at them, and contemplates the day of work ahead of him. His fears build up to a roar at that thought, so loud he can’t possibly concentrate on anything else. He _can’t_ , he realizes. Can’t drag himself out of bed, can’t shower, can’t eat breakfast, can’t go into work and pretend like he isn’t fucking miserable.

            So, he picks up the book by the side of his bed and dives in, trying to use the written words to drown out his brain. It doesn’t work that well, of course, but it’s better than telly. He touches the top left hand corner of every page before he turns it, and manages to make the roar subside a bit.

            Of course, it comes back twofold when his phone rings.

            Colin _hates_ talking on the phone. He’s awkward enough when he has the advantage of reading other people’s facial cues and body language, so he’s utterly hopeless when these things are taken away. It’s more than that though; it’s another check mark on the long, long list of things he fears.

            Colin considers letting it go to voicemail, but his remaining pride won’t let him avoid the conversation he knows is about to occur.

            Sure enough, it’s his boss on the other end of the line, telling him what he already knows: this is the third shift in a row he’s missed without calling in, and the company can’t let that slide any longer. The voice on the other end of the line isn’t angry, though, and before Colin’s boss hangs up, he says, gently, “I think you need help, lad”.

            When the call disconnects, Colin throws his phone across the room and buries his face in his hands. His job at the supermarket was supposed to be _temporary_ , something to tide him over while he went on auditions, tried to get a break. Then, the auditions had dried up, or he had been too afraid to go to them, and his temporary job had become rather more permanent.

            And now it’s gone. Colin lifts his head from his hands and rubs his stinging eyes again. He does need help

***

            A week later, Colin sits in the waiting room of his new therapist’s office, right leg jiggling rapidly. It’s not just the thought of his impending appointment that’s making him nervous. He had been reassured when he had seen that the office was located in a sober building. It’s official looking, like a place where Serious Business takes place.

            The waiting room does not look like it belongs in this building at all. There are several mismatched sofas and armchairs, crowded haphazardly around a low coffee table, which is covered in back issues of _Psychologies._ Near the window, an ancient-looking boom box is playing Top 40 just loudly enough to be annoying. The walls are absolutely plastered with things, framed artwork next to movie posters next to childish drawings, all hung without the slightest regard for aesthetic appeal. In all, the room looks like it was decorated by a madman.

            Of course, Colin realizes with a jolt, it very well might have been.

            Thankfully, the door leading into the office opens at that moment, saving Colin from what is sure to have been an epic freak out. A teenaged girl walks out, her face red and blotchy. Colin suddenly realizes the reason for the background music, as he hadn’t been able to hear her crying. The girl thanks someone who Colin can’t see, and leaves without sparing him a glance.

            Colin’s just starting to wonder whether he should walk into the other room himself, when a man, presumably the therapist, comes out and greets him.

            ‘ _Bugger’_ Colin thinks.

            The therapist is easily the most attractive man he has ever seen.

            Blond, with baby blue eyes, tall and broad shouldered, great smile that shows off an endearingly crooked tooth. This man literally has every single one of the physical qualities that tend to attract Colin.

            And it only gets worse when he speaks. “Colin Morgan?” he asks, and _Jesus Christ_ his voice is sexy. Colin feels his knees go weak, and thanks the God he doesn’t believe in that he’s sitting down.  

            Of course, he realizes a few seconds later that he does actually have to stand up in order to follow the therapist into his office.

            Predictably enough, he wobbles when he stands up. The therapist’s smile widens by a few molars, in a way that gives Colin the distinct impression that he’s being made fun of. He’s not entirely sure whether this makes him more or less comfortable in the man’s presence. It certainly makes his attractiveness fall a few points, and Colin is able to make it into the office without any further problems.

            When he passes through the door, he’s slightly relieved at the much more understated décor. It still looks like someone’s grandma’s house, but it’s a great deal better than the waiting room. Colin sits on the poufy couch provided, and flails a little when he unexpectedly sinks a few inches into the fabric.

            A laugh sounds behind him, and after Colin rights himself, he turns to the therapist and says “I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to be making fun of me.”

            The look on the blond man’s face suggests that Colin is speaking in tongues. “Say what now?” he asks.

            Colin rolls his eyes and repeats himself, more slowly this time.

            “Ah. You’re going to have to speak really slowly, mate. You sound like you’ve got marbles in your mouth.” The therapist completely ignores Colin’s resulting glare, sinking into a large leather chair. “So, my name’s Bradley. What seems to be your problem?”

            Colin is incredulous. And also pissed. “I’m not going to talk about them with such a _tosser_.” He spits, making to get off the couch.

            He’s stopped by Bradley raising a hand in front of him (also by the fact that getting off the couch is far too difficult, but he’s not about to admit that). “I’m sorry” he says, finally seeming to realize that Colin is actually upset. “I find clients are less tense in this sort of situation if I treat them like I treat people outside the office. I didn’t realize I had gone too far.” Bradley’s eyes are well-suited to a puppy dog look, and Colin finds himself relaxing back into the couch before his brain has given its express permission. “’S ok.” He says quietly. The reality of this situation, that he’s actually expected to _tell_ someone what’s going on with him, has just sunk in.

            Bradley looks at him expectantly. “So…”

            Colin sighs. “I have problems getting my brain to…shut up.” It’s not the most elegant of descriptions, but what goes on in Colin’s brain defies explanation. He’s half convinced that Bradley will tell him he needs to be institutionalized, that he’s too crazy to be roaming the streets.

            Bradley nods and asks “What is it that your brain can’t stop doing? Worrying? Putting yourself down? Convincing you that you’re going to stab someone even though you don’t want to?”

            Colin stiffens, shocked by Bradley’s words.

            He _notices_ , the bastard, and when he speaks again his voice is full of understanding. “The last one?”

            “…Sometimes.” Colin admits. When Bradley doesn’t make any reply to that, Colin continues. “Sometimes, I’ll be talking to someone, and I’ll picture myself just…putting my hands around their throat, strangling them with my bare hands.” He’s nearly speaking at a whisper at this point, mortified that he’s getting this out in the open. “It’s not just strangers, or people I don’t know, either.” He drops his head to his hands, tries to fight back the tears that are threatening to spill. “It’s even happened with my _mum_.” He chokes out.

            Bradley seems to realize that this is a sensitive subject, for there’s no trace of judgement or mocking in his tone when he says “I think I can help you with that.”

            Colin looks up, having successfully held back his tears. His voice is rougher than normal, however, when he says “You’re not going to institutionalize me, then?”

            Bradley has gotten up from his chair and is rummaging around in his desk. He throws a smile over his shoulder at Colin’s words, and says “Believe it or not, you’re not the first I’ve had with this sort of problem. It’s actually fairly common.”

            This leaves Colin reeling. He had convinced himself that he was so unusual, so _crazy_ , that there were few, if any, others like him. He can only watch, dumbstruck, as Bradley finds what he was looking for in his desk. It’s a simple packet of paper, which he clips to a clipboard placed conveniently on his desk. He settles himself back in the chair, and re-fixes his gaze on Colin. “I’m just going to give you a little test, to confirm my suspicions of what your problem is.” He says, all business now. “Before we start, I want to define a couple of terms for you.” He clears his throat. “Obsessions are unwelcome and distressing ideas, thoughts, images or impulses that repeatedly enter your mind. They may seem to occur against your will. They may be repugnant to you, you may recognize them as senseless, and they may not fit your personality.” He’s definitely reading off of the paper at this point, but Colin barely notices. He’s too busy focusing on the words, that describe and sum up what he feels so succinctly.

            Bradley continues. “Compulsions, on the other hand, are behaviors or acts that you feel driven to perform although you may recognize them as senseless or excessive. At times, you may try to resist doing them but this may prove difficult. You may experience anxiety that does not diminish until the behavior is completed.” He looks up expectantly at Colin after he’s finished. “Make sense?”

            Colin nods.

            “Ok, keeping that in mind, I’d like you to answer a few questions for me.” Bradley flips to the next page in his packet. “I’m going to read out an obsessive symptom, and I want you to indicate if it’s ever been a problem for you, and if so, if it’s a current or past problem. I’d also like you to identify which symptoms are the most disruptive to you.” He looks up again, and, at Colin’s nod, says “Fear that you might harm yourself.”

            _Colin’s walking along the sidewalk. The road next to him is busy, and, all the sudden, the thought pops into his head. ‘What if I just threw myself in front of one of those cars?’ The thought is accompanied by a hot rush of fear, and he unconsciously steps further away from the road._

Colin swallows. “Current.” He says. Bradley makes a note. “Fear that you might harm others, either directly or indirectly.”

            _He’s at work, checking out a customer, who’s barking orders at some poor soul over his cell phone. As he swipes a bag of crisps over the scanner, he finds himself thinking about taking the stapler that has a permanent residence beside his register and bringing it down on the man’s hand. He’s utterly horrified with himself. He’s not a violent person, he doesn’t really_ want _to hurt this man, but why else would the thought come to him, and why would he dwell on it?_

“Current. And the most disruptive one, probably.”

            Another note. “Violent or horrific images.”

            _Fire. Blood. People’s bodies and bones being crushed with sickening noises. It’s all so vivid, so_ real _, and what kind of horrible person thinks like this?_

Colin rubs at his eyes. “Current. Fairly disruptive as well.” He says shortly, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice.

            Bradley gives him a sympathetic look. “You’re doing wonderfully,” he says. “Fear of blurting out obscenities or insults?”

            Colin blinks. “No.”

            This continues for several minutes, Bradley reading out a symptom, and Colin answering. Then Bradley says “Alright, we’ll go through the list of compulsions now. You remember the definition of compulsions from earlier, right?” Bradley waits for Colin’s nod, adjusting the paper on his clipboard and clearing his throat when he receives it. “Excessive or ritualized hand washing?”

            “No.”

            “Checking that you did not, or will not, harm others?”

            _Colin scrambles to the phone, dialing a familiar number with shaking fingers. The fear rushing through his body, the fear that the thought he has just had will somehow harm his brother, cancels out the fear that he normally associates with using the phone._

_The fear only subsides slightly when Neil answers._

            “Current.” Colin says.

            “Needing to repeat routine activities?”

            Colin frowns. “Such as?” he asks.

            “Things like having to turn a light switch on and off repeatedly,” Bradley says. “or having to walk through a door multiple times. Basically, this applies if you have to do something over and over, until it feels right.”

            _Colin turns the page of his book, but doesn’t start reading. There’s a familiar doubt in the back of his mind, the feeling that he didn’t do something correctly. He turns back to the previous page, touching the top left corner absentmindedly, and then flips it again. Still not right. He repeats the action again and again, varying how quickly he turns the page, where he grasps in order to complete the action, even how he turns the page._

_It takes a couple minutes, but he finally gets it right._

“Current. And disruptive.” Colin says curtly. He feels the anxiety, always curled tightly just under his skin, grow with every minute he spends focusing on it. He just wants to go home and sleep or read, do anything but allow these thoughts to take over in his brain.

            The remainder of the time that Bradley spends going over the list of compulsions passes in a blur. Colin scarcely even remembers his answers.  

            Finally, the rapid-fire questions stop, and Bradley says “Alright, so it seems as though we’ve identified your top three obsessions and top three compulsions.” He turns his clipboard around to show Colin. Under the bold heading, **Target Symptom List** , Bradley has written, in strong, clear handwriting:

            Obsessions:

            1. Fear might harm others

            2. Violent or horrific images

            3. Fear will act on unwanted impulses

            Compulsions:

            1. Checking that did not/will not harm others

            2. Needing to repeat routine activities

            3. Mental rituals

Something about seeing his symptoms written down like that, black and white, undeniable, shocks Colin out of the dreamlike state he’s been in all morning. For the first time, he really _grasps_ that this is happening. He has OCD. He’s _mentally ill_.

            Bradley, for all the myriad faults he’s displayed during this appointment, is quite good at reading Colin’s emotions. He pulls the clipboard away from Colin, turning it back towards his chest, and says “Well, our time’s nearly up. Shall we schedule you a standing appointment, this time every week?”

            Colin’s still a bit numb, but he recognizes that there’s still fifteen minutes left in the session. Nevertheless, he’s happy with what Bradley is trying to do – he doesn’t think he could take much more of this, sitting here and trying not to have a mental breakdown. “Yes, that would be fine,” he says, pathetically proud of how his voice doesn’t shake.

            Bradley gives him a small smile, sympathetic without being patronizing, and replies “Next week, we’ll assess the severity of your symptoms. In the time between now and then, I’d like you to pay attention to things like how many hours a day you spend on your obsessions and compulsions. It doesn’t need to be exact, just a ballpark.”

            At Colin’s answering nod, Bradley stands up in one smooth motion, offering his hand. “Until next week,” he says.

            Colin shakes Bradley’s hand and then bolts out of the office as fast as he possibly can.

            When he gets outside, he feels like he can breathe again.

***

              Colin’s next appointment is set for the same time the next week, but it feels like it’s only a few hours later that he finds himself sitting in Bradley’s waiting room again.

            Of course, the fact that he’s spent the last week sleeping as much as humanly possible, instead of looking for a job or even leaving his flat might have something to do with that.

            The amount of sleep he’s gotten has caused Colin to feel, paradoxically enough, sluggish and slow and insurmountably tired. As a result, he knows he looks like shit right now – his clothes are probably filthy, he can’t remember the last time he showered, and he’s jammed a beanie on his head to cover up how out-of-control his hair is. Despite his attraction to Bradley, he can’t bring himself to care. It’s not like Bradley would ever go out with him, even if there wasn’t the immorality of the therapist-patient relationship to consider.

            The door to Bradley’s office opens, and the same teenaged girl from last week walks out. She’s not crying this time and, instead of ignoring Colin, she gives him a small smile as she walks out the door. He supposes they have some sort of connection, now. Two people, of different ages and genders, who would probably have never known each other if they didn’t have their mental illness.

            It would be poetic, if it wasn’t so fucking depressing.

            “Colin?” Bradley’s voice breaks into his thoughts, and Colin’s on his feet without even thinking about it, following Bradley into the office. He sits on the same couch as last time, and, despite the fact that he’s prepared this time, sinks into it again. “Couldn’t you have bought a better couch?” he grumbles

            Bradley shrugs. “Was already here when I moved my stuff in. Besides,” he gives a Cheshire Cat grin. “I like it. Separates the boys from the men, you know?”

            Colin raises his eyebrow. “…No, I don’t. Also, that’s a bit sexist.”

            “Fine, separates the adults from the children, then.” Bradley sits down in his chair, pulling out his clipboard. The sight of it distracts Colin from their banter, reminds him of the reason that he’s here, and the small bit of happiness that had been bubbling up in his chest immediately dissipates.

            Nevertheless, he makes a valiant effort to continue the conversation. “I bet I can guess which side of _that_ fence I fall on,” he says.

            Bradley acknowledges Colin with a tilt of the head, eyes sparkling with mirth. It’s short-lived, though: as Bradley looks down at his clipboard again, he schools his face into a serious expression. “So last time, I asked you to pay attention to your obsessions and compulsions. I’m going to ask you a few questions about that now,” he says.

            Colin nods.

            “I’d like you to answer the following questions with a number. Zero means none, one is mild, two is moderate, three is severe, and four is extreme. Like I said before, don’t worry about giving correct or exact answers. This is more about how you feel in general.”

            Colin takes a deep breath, but doesn’t say anything.

            “On an average day, how much of your time is spent occupied by your obsessive thoughts?” Bradley asks. “For this question, a one would correspond to less than an hour, a two would be one to three hours, a three would be between three and eight hours, and a four would be anything over eight.”

            Colin doesn’t really know how to answer the question. It’s not like he _times_ himself, really, and it’s hardly ever continuous: his obsessive thoughts seem to pop up throughout the day. “Erm, I’d say…probably a three,” he says. “It can be hard to tell, but it’s happening most of the time that I’m awake.”

            “I understand. On the average day, what is the longest interval of time that you are without obsessive symptoms? For this question, a one would correspond to a long symptom free interval…”

            Just like the previous week, Colin can feel his attention drifting. This time, though, instead of floating about in his own head, Colin focuses on Bradley, on the flex of his fingers around the pen, on the way his lips look around the words, horrible words that define Colin’s life now, his very existence. He’s read up on the stats of this disease, and he knows that most people are saddled with it their entire lives.

            The really fucked up thing is, as he looks at Bradley, he starts to think that it may not be such a bad thing, this illness.

            Not if it gets him this.

***

             

             Colin’s trying to look for another job, because while he rather likes being able to stay home all day, every day, there’s really only so much money he can borrow from his mum to pay for his flat before he starts to really hate himself.

            While he’d absolutely love it if he could land an acting job, it’s out of the question: he hasn’t been out on an audition in so long that he’s forgotten how to do it, and his headshots are woefully out-of-date.

            Not to mention, it would be much worse for him if he missed days on an acting job due to his illness. In a job like the one he’d had at the supermarket, it didn’t really affect anyone else if he had a habit of skipping out. If he didn’t show up, the management could always call up another one of the cashiers, who, though they might be upset that their day off was interrupted, would come in to pick up his slack.

            If he had an acting job, though, even a small one, missing a day would mess with production, and missing more than one may even halt it completely. No, it was better for all involved if, while Colin was getting his shit under control, he got a job where he was slightly less important.

            Today, Colin has the first interview that he’s managed to land so far, and he’s freaking out. He’s managed to get showered and dressed, at least, damp hair dripping slightly onto the back of the nicest shirt he owns, but he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to make it out of the house.

            Flashing back to his last therapy session, to what Bradley had told him to do while outside the office, Colin tracks down the packet of papers he’d received. He sits heavily down at his kitchen table and holds a pen over the worksheet on the top, wondering if he’ll have the courage to actually write this down.

            The first column, the ‘situation’ one, is fairly simple. Colin thinks for a moment, then writes down:

            _I have a job interview, and I’m upset and nervous about it_.

            There, that wasn’t so hard. The next column, ‘emotions/moods’ is easy as well.

            _I feel anxious, panicky. Intensity is 85%_.

            Colin frowns at his answer. He’s not exactly sure what the ‘intensity’ of an emotion is, but since this isn’t quite the most anxious he’s ever felt, he figures 85 is a good guess.

            In the third column, ‘physical sensations’, he writes:

            _My stomach hurts. I’m not quite nauseous, but it’s more than butterflies. My eyes feel sore. My palms are sweating._

            He’s always been aware that his body responds to his anxiety, but he’s never catalogued the feelings like this. It’s scary, in a way, because it’s certainly not normal to get so worked up over a _job interview_ that you have physical symptoms, but it’s also a relief. For a while, he’d been convinced that his symptoms were the result of allergies or something, and he’d gotten quite frustrated when he couldn’t get a diagnosis.

            The next column, ‘unhelpful thoughts/images’, is where it starts to get tricky.

            _All I can think about is how I can ~~fuck~~ screw this up. What if I go in there and act crazy, if I have to go through the doors more than once, or if I have to keep touching things on the interviewer’s desk? And it’s dangerous for me to go outside, I could hurt other people or I could hurt myself…_

            Colin can feel the tightness in his stomach increasing, his throat closing as he revisits these thoughts. They look ridiculous, all written down like that, they _are_ ridiculous, and he knows it. The ridiculousness doesn’t stop them from being terrifying, though.

            Colin takes a deep breath. Bradley had called it _ruminating_ , when he got caught up in these endless loops of thought. It wasn’t healthy, Bradley said, to focus on them like he did. Colin had answered that he _tried_ to stop, but his brain wouldn’t shut up no matter what he did, and wasn’t Bradley supposed to be _helping_ him, and not telling him what he already knew?

            Bradley had laughed in response to Colin’s cheek, and the next thing he had said would be burned into Colin’s brain forever:

            _“Well, that’s what’s tough about this disease, innit? You can’t just tell yourself to stop thinking about something. There were these two guys, Barlow and Durand, who did this study where they told their subjects that they weren’t allowed to think about pink elephants. Of course, as soon as they said that, the subjects couldn’t get pink elephants out of their heads, because they were trying so hard not to think of them. When you have your obsessive thoughts, you probably do anything you possibly can to avoid them – hoping that distracting yourself will make you stop thinking about them. The real trick to managing OCD is learning how to let yourself have these thoughts without fixating on them. You want to take away their power, to not let them be a big deal.”_

 _“How am I supposed to do that?”_ Colin had asked.

            Bradley had shrugged, grin lighting up his face. _“Dunno yet. But that’s why I’m here. To help you figure it out.”_

            Remembering this conversation, remembering Bradley and his smile, helped center Colin, enough for him to turn back to the worksheet. The next column is ‘alternate/realistic thought’.

            _If I go in there and act crazy, the worst thing that can happen is I won’t get the job. I need a job for money, but it’s not the end of the world if I don’t get this exact one. I don’t want to hurt anyone else or myself, and I’ve never lost control enough to do so._

            These are the types of things that Colin often thinks when he’s freaking out, trying to argue himself out of the mood. It’s never worked for him before, just made him focus on how _weird_ and _crazy_ he is, but, once again, seeing the words written down makes them feel more real than when they were just in his head.

            It doesn’t make the thoughts go away, of course, because this is real life and not a Hollywood movie, not a fairy tale, but Colin can feel the knot in his stomach loosen.

            The last column on the sheet is ‘what I did/what I can do, re-rate emotion’, and that one’s simple. Colin writes:

            _I’m going to go to that interview, and do the best that I can. Intensity of emotion is 65%._

            As Colin writes the number, 20% less than the one he had written just five minutes ago, he realizes that it’s true. Sure, 65 is still intense – he’s fairly sure that normal people wouldn’t even get near that – but it’s a drop. It’s _something_.

            Colin gets up and heads out the door. He’s got a job interview to go to. 

***

            The day of his next appointment, Colin arrives with the three worksheets he’s completed in the last week. He’s nervous about showing them to Bradley – he can’t shake the feeling that it’ll make Bradley judge him, despite how lovely Bradley’s been to him so far.

            He’s finally worked out how to sit on Bradley’s couch without looking like a complete twat, and, as he hands his worksheets over to Bradley, he thinks he’s almost as proud of this fact as he is of the job interview.

            There’s silence for a few moments, as Bradley reads over the worksheets. When he’s finished, he looks up, small smile on his face. “You did brilliantly,” he says, making a warm feeling rise in Colin’s chest. “How did your interview go?”

            “It could’ve been better,” Colin allows. “I wasn’t as prepared as I should’ve been, but I managed to get to the interview and not make a complete arse out of myself.”

            “Baby steps, my dear Colin, baby steps,” says Bradley airily. He sounds ridiculous, not to mention patronizing, but Colin can tell that he means no harm. Colin’s gotten pretty good at reading Bradley over the past few weeks.

            “When will you find out if you’ve gotten the job?” is Bradley’s next question.

            Colin shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s been about three days since the interview. I figure I’ll give it a week before I call and ask.”

            Bradley steeples his fingers, looking like he’s trying to play a therapist in a film. “Wonderful idea, old chap,” he says, and Colin laughs.

            Much as Colin enjoys joking with Bradley, he knows that it can’t last long, because he’s paying Bradley to help him recover, and the teasing doesn’t exactly count as helping.

            Sure enough, Bradley’s next question is completely serious. “What did you say this interview was for, exactly?”

            “It’s a cashiering job. In a retail store,” Colin answers shortly. He knows that it sounds pathetic, that he’s so excited about the possibility of getting such a shitty job.     

            “You don’t sound very happy about that,” says Bradley, and Colin sometimes hates him for being so damn observant.

            “Well, it’s not exactly my dream job.”

            “What _is_ your dream job, then?” Bradley asks. “Astronaut? Firefighter? Lion tamer?”

            Colin laughs again, feeling a bit of the tension drain out of the situation. “Nothing so daring,” he says. “Actor, actually.”

            “ _Really_?” Bradley sounds impressed, and Colin’s not really sure why – it’s not as though he’s ever booked any sort of major role, not since he got out of drama school, at least. When he voices this thought, Bradley waves him off impatiently. “I was thinking, after I first met you, that you’d make a good actor,” Bradley says. “Many of my patients are used to playing it close to the chest, hiding their symptoms from others, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a patient pretend as convincingly as you.”

            “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” says Colin.

            “Me neither, really,” Bradley answers. “It’s not an _insult_ , if that’s what you’re thinking.”

            “Well thank you,” says Colin drily. “I always appreciate not-insults.”

            “Oh, you know what I mean,” says Bradley.

            Colin really doesn’t, but he’s gotten used to Bradley’s madness. The good kind of madness, that is, not like Colin’s madness.

            Which brings him back full-circle.

             “I think that those worksheets have helped, a bit,” he says.

            “You don’t sound entirely sure of that.”

            “I _am_ sure, it’s just…” Colin sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I know that recovery takes time, but I can’t help but expect that I’ll somehow wake up one day and be normal again.”

            Bradley’s eyes soften in sympathy. “You’re frustrated that your progress has only been small?” he asks.

            “I guess so,” says Colin. “I know it’s stupid, it’s only been three weeks, but…”

            “You’re allowed to be frustrated, even if it’s not rational,” Bradley says. “It doesn’t make you stupid, or out of touch with reality. It’s a completely normal reaction to have.”

            “I know.”

            They sit in silence for a while. Colin feels like he should be talking, filling up the air with his thoughts and feelings and dreams and memories, the way people in movies did when they went to therapy. Bradley doesn’t work like that, though: so far he seems to be focused on finding ways to control and manage Colin’s symptoms, rather than trying to discover the underlying cause. Colin voices this concern aloud; wondering if maybe, something like that would help him.

            Bradley’s response is a sad smile and a shake of the head. “It’s really not that simple,” he says. “OCD doesn’t have one specific cause. There are so many factors that could lead to a person developing OCD: their genetics, family background, brain chemistry. Hell, some OCD patients even develop the disease after having a specific type of strep throat as a child. The point is, we likely wouldn’t even be able to find why you have OCD, let alone take any steps to try and fix it.”

            Colin nods, discouraged.

            “The only thing that may work in that manner is medication,” Bradley continues. “There are some pills that can help re-balance your brain chemistry, if that’s one of the underlying causes of your disorder.”

            Colin shakes his head vigorously. “I don’t want to be the kind of person who’s dependent on pills to be happy.”

            “Would you say the same thing if you had a physical illness, and I was offering you medicine to help stop the pain?” Bradley counters.

            “Well, no, but…”

            “Or if you were a diabetic, and I was offering you insulin?”

            “No, of course not,” Colin says.

            Bradley leans back in his chair, satisfied that his point has been made. “Remember, the brain is just as much a part of the body as the stomach or the heart,” he says. “It wouldn’t make you a lesser person to take medication.”

            Colin nods, chagrined. He’d never really thought of it that way, and what Bradley’s saying makes sense, but he can’t help having a visceral reaction to the idea of medication.

            “Now, don’t think I’m trying to pressure you into taking medication, because I’m not. I just want you to know that it’s an option for you.” Bradley’s blue eyes are wide and earnest, and Colin has no doubt that he’s telling the truth. It’s a strange feeling for Colin, having this person, practically a stranger, care so much about his well-being.

            Strange, but wonderful.

            “Alright,” Colin says. “I’ll think about it.”

            “That’s all I ask for.” Bradley sweeps his arms out in a wide, dramatic motion. “Now, we’re nearly at the end of your session. I’d like you to continue with the thought records, and next week, we’ll talk more about your compulsions.”

***

            A few days later, Colin’s managed to pluck up the courage to drag himself out of his flat. He can’t even remember the last time he went grocery shopping, and he really can’t live any longer on the odd assortment of condiments he has in his fridge.

            The location of his flat is quite convenient, because there’s a small family-owned grocery store right around the corner. Sure, he would probably save a lot of money if he went to the large chain supermarket that’s a bit further away, but Colin likes the feeling of supporting a local business. Not to mention that it’s easier for Colin to accommodate his allergies and other strange dietary needs at such a small shop.

            Colin’s in the bread aisle, contemplating the relative merits of whole wheat and pumpernickel, when he hears a voice call out his name.

            He turns slowly, because there’s no way that the voice is coming from who he thinks.

            Naturally, because life seems fond of kicking Colin in the face with cleats on, the voice does, indeed, belong to Bradley.

            Colin had thought, somehow (when he allowed himself to think about these things), that Bradley would be entirely different outside his office. Maybe his clothes would be different, or maybe he’d be more serious, somehow, less likely to tease and needle.

            One look at Bradley now, in the middle of the bread aisle of a mom-and-pop grocery store, wearing ridiculous shorts and a dazzling grin, full shopping basket dangling from his right hand, shows Colin that this isn’t the case. He supposes he shouldn’t have thought that way anyway; if anything, someone would be more serious at work than outside of work, right?

            “Colin?” Bradley says, sounding unsure, and Colin realizes that he’s been lost in thought for the past few minutes, and hasn’t acknowledged Bradley’s existence at all. “Yes, hello,” he says, nearly wincing at how awkward he sounds. “What brings you here?”

            “Shopping.” Bradley holds up his basket slightly, as though Colin won’t understand unless he’s shown. Colin notices that Bradley buys the same brand of cereal as him. “I gathered that,” Colin says drily. He gives himself a little mental shake, trying to snap himself out of this strange reverie. “I mean, why here?”

            Bradley shrugs. “I like it here. Quiet and peaceful. Besides, I could ask you the same question.”

            “Allergies,” Colin replies. “Big supermarkets aren’t that great about warning for allergens and such.”

            “What’re you allergic to, then?” Bradley asks, sounding for all the world as though he actually cares about Colin’s myriad difficulties with food.

            “Erm, tomatoes, mainly. And I’m lactose intolerant. And a vegetarian.”

            Bradley laughs. “Well, you’re just a special little snowflake, aren’t you?”

            “Oh, shove it,” Colin says, letting out a grin so Bradley will know he’s kidding. “I’m very sensitive about my dietary restrictions.”

            “As you should be. For a life without milk and tomatoes is not a life at all.” Bradley gives a sage nod, like he’s saying something profound, instead of talking utter bollocks.

            “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more of a wanker outside your office,” Colin says. His heart’s going a million miles an hour. Ridiculous, really, that this meaningless conversation can make him feel this way, but there it is.

            “You wound me, Morgan. _Wound_ _me_.”

            “Truth hurts, James,” Colin replies.

            Bradley throws back his head and laughs at Colin’s quick comeback. Colin’s eyes are instantly drawn to the long line of his throat, the white flash of his teeth, the crinkles around his eyes.

            Colin can do nothing but stare like an idiot, powerless against his attraction to Bradley. Unfortunately for Colin, this doesn’t seem to be the kind of idiotic staring that he has any control over, because he’s still looking when Bradley stops laughing.

            Something strange happens, though: instead of breaking away from Colin’s gaze, getting awkward, making an excuse – anything a normal person would do in this situation – Bradley catches Colin’s eye and holds it.

            A moment passes, simultaneously slow as honey and much, much too long, before Bradley gives his head a little shake and breaks the gaze.

            “Well, nice as it’s been being insulted by you, Colin, I’ve got to run. I have an appointment in twenty.” Bradley seems a bit flustered, speaking more quickly than he normally does, but he waits for Colin to acknowledge his statement with a dazed “Bye, then,” before he disappears around a corner with his basket.

            Colin just stands there for a short while, staring after Bradley and trying not to get his hopes up.

***

            Colin doesn’t get the job.

            He doesn’t understand. He’d done so _well,_ prepared so carefully, tried so damn hard to get himself employed, get back on his feet.

            Maybe, he muses as he stares down at his mobile, he’s just not good enough. He’ll never be good enough.

            Colin presses a few buttons on his mobile, scrolling through his contact list until he finds the number for Bradley’s office. It’s saved as _Dr. James_ , which makes Colin want to laugh: Bradley’s not the kind of person that one would call ‘Dr.’.

            His fingers hover over the ‘call’ button. It’s kind of pathetic, that the first person he thinks to call after getting bad news is his therapist, but Bradley’s actually the best choice of a person to talk to.

            He can’t call his mum with this news, not yet, anyway. She’d been so happy for him, getting back on his feet at all, and he’s not emotionally stable enough to deal with disappointing her right now.

            Neil’s out as well. Colin’s brother loves him, and would support him through anything. He knows this. But he can’t help feeling like he’s bothering Neil when he rings, distracting him from his own life – his job, his mates, his girlfriend.

            He would call a friend, if he had any. Unfortunately, all of his friends had disappeared, after he’d stopped auditioning for acting gigs and starting isolating himself in his house.

            It’s a bad idea to call Bradley, really. He’s a therapist, not a friend – it’s not in his job description to talk Colin down from his freak-outs.

            Colin calls him anyway.

            He almost hangs up when he hears it start ringing, but he’s not fast enough. “Hello, you’ve reached Bradley James’s office,” comes Bradley’s voice, bright and chipper and everything Colin needs right now. “How can I help you?”

            “Bradley?” Colin’s voice comes out in an embarrassing squeak, and he clears his throat to try to cover it up. “It’s Colin Morgan.”

            “Colin!” Bradley sounds happy to hear from him, for whatever reason. “How are you?”

            “Not so great,” Colin admits quietly. “You know that job interview I was telling you about?”

            Bradley winces, clearly anticipating what’s coming next.

            “…I didn’t get it,” Colin continues, just in case it was unclear.

            “I’m sorry,” Bradley sounds completely genuine, the way he always does when he says things like this. “Do you want to come in, talk about it?”

            Colin scrubs a hand over his face. “Erm, I don’t think so,” he says. “I know you’ve probably got clients and such to deal with. Wouldn’t want to interrupt someone else’s session.”

            Bradley’s silent for a moment. “Tell you what,” he says. “My last appointment today ends at six. Why don’t we meet up for coffee or something, see if we can’t make you feel better?”

            Colin actually pulls the mobile away from his face to give it an incredulous stare. He knows Bradley’s not asking him for a date, or anything, but he can’t help the jump in his stomach, the little hitch in his breathing, that these words cause.

            It’s entirely possible that the crush he has on his therapist is getting out of hand.

            Colin brings the phone back to his ear, just in time to hear Bradley ask “Colin?”, sounding concerned.

            “Yeah, I’m here,” he answers. “Look, I don’t want you to feel…obligated, or anything. I know it doesn’t really matter to you, what’s going on in my life. I shouldn’t even have called.”

            “Then why did you?” Bradley sounds like he already knows the answer to this question, and he just wants Colin to say it out loud. It’s not something that Colin’s unaccustomed to hearing from him, but it never fails to make him want to shut the smug git up. He knows it’s probably a therapeutic technique, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

            Colin decides to cut right to the chase. “I had no one else to call.”

            “All the more reason why you should see me,” Bradley says. “People, especially those who have a mood or anxiety disorder, need a support system when things are shit. You can’t go through this alone.”

            “…Fine,” says Colin. He knows Bradley’s right, knows from experience how much _worse_ everything seems when you’ve got no one to share it with. “Where should we meet, then?”

            “Hm. Where do you live?”

            “’S a bit of a personal question, don’t you think?” Colin jokes.    

            “Oh, sod off,” says Bradley. “I just want to find somewhere that’s convenient for both of us, is all.”

            Colin laughs. “I live over near Kings Cross,” he says. “I know a place that’s about halfway between my apartment and your office. Shall I give you directions?”

            “Yeah, sounds good,” says Bradley. “We’ll meet at, say, ten after six?”

            Colin agrees, and, after giving Bradley the directions, hangs up the phone.

***

            Colin’s nerves over meeting Bradley in a non-professional setting dissipate almost as soon as Bradley shows up.

            He walks into the shop, flashes a crooked smile at the harassed looking teenager behind the counter, and waltzes over to take the chair opposite Colin’s.

            There’s something so immensely comforting about Bradley, despite or maybe because of his tendency for dramatics and love of teasing. It’s difficult to be uncomfortable or awkward around him, because he’s just so genuine.

            It’s not that Colin thinks Bradley’s not capable of being deceptive or faking interest – it’s just that he doesn’t seem to need or want to.

            “Colin!” Bradley greets him excitedly, before seemingly remembering that this isn’t an occasion for cheer. His next words are more subdued. “You alright, mate?”

            Colin shrugs. “I’ve been better,” he says. “But I think you were right, that I needed someone to talk to.” He chances a look up at Bradley, who’s grinning back at him.

            “You should never doubt me, Cols,” he says, the seriousness of his voice at odds with his manic grin. “I am always right.”

            Colin wants to give him a friendly smack for that comment, but he doesn’t quite know the boundaries of their relationship yet. It’s more than the typical therapist-client connection, he knows that, but he’s not sure if they can really be considered friends.

            So instead, he settles for mock-glaring at Bradley through his eyelashes. “Wanker,” he grumbles. “Next time I’ll call one of my loads of other friends for sympathy.” Too late, Colin realizes that he just implied that he and Bradley are friends, but Bradley doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

            “Aw, c’mon, you can’t do that to me!” Bradley whines, throwing an arm in the air dramatically. “Whatever would I do, if I didn’t have you to talk to?”

            Colin hadn’t thought it was possible, but Bradley is even more free, more teasing and uninhibited, outside his office. Colin likes it.

            He almost doesn’t want to bring up the matter Bradley has come to discuss, because he wants to have a connection with Bradley that doesn’t involve his illness. He can’t forget about it though, the hurt and anxiety and inadequacy thrumming just below his skin, and he feels like he just might burst if he doesn’t say _something_. “I don’t understand why I’m not good enough,” is what comes out of his mouth, and, for the billionth time in his life, Colin curses his stupid fucking brain, because these things require _segues_. You can’t just jump from friendly teasing straight to depressing questions without some kind of warning.

            Indeed, Bradley looks confused for a moment, his forehead wrinkling adorably as he frowns. He recovers quickly, though, answering in a voice that’s soft, but sure. “You’re good enough, Colin. _Better_ than good enough. You’re an amazing person.”

            Colin can’t help but let out a snort. “If I’m so damn _amazing_ , than why am I such a fuck-up?” he asks. It’s a rhetorical question, of course. He’s about the furthest thing from amazing, and either Bradley lies more than Colin thought he did, or Colin’s managed to fool him, somehow.

            “Why do you say you’re a fuck-up?” Bradley asks. He’s slipped into therapist mode, lightness and teasing hidden back beneath the surface.

            “Why _wouldn’t_ I say I’m a fuck-up?” Colin counters. “I’m twenty-six years old, unemployed, my _mother_ pays for my flat, I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with someone who I wasn’t related to or _paying_ , I can barely leave my house, I haven’t had sex in God only knows how long, let alone a _boyfriend_ …” Colin’s rant trails off as a thunderstruck look comes over Bradley’s face. “What?” he asks, knowing he should apologize for the tirade, but not really wanting to. It’s not like he said a single word that wasn’t true.

            “Boyfriend?” Bradley asks.

            Colin frowns slightly, mentally replaying his sessions with Bradley. He’s certain he must have mentioned his sexuality at _some_ point, just in passing, because he’s not shy about or ashamed of being gay, hasn’t been since he came out at the age of seventeen. “Yes?” he says.

            Bradley still has an odd look on his face. The only reason Colin can think that Bradley would make a big deal out of this is if he’s homophobic, but that’s nearly laughable. There’s no way Bradley, open, sweet Bradley, who hadn’t judged him when he’d admitted to having thoughts of murdering his own _mother_ , would judge him for being gay.

            Still, Colin’s not the kind of person who can handle being unsure about these kind of things, so he asks “What? You’re not one of those ‘cure the gays’ therapists, right?” He tries to make it a joke, but it falls a bit flat, because suddenly, he’s actually worried.

            Bradley starts shaking his head, so vigorously that his hair flies around his face, before Colin’s even finished with the sentence. “No. God, no. That’s not it.” He reaches forward with one hand, presumably to take a sip of his drink and calm his nerves, but, as he hasn’t actually ordered anything, his hand closes around air.

            Before Bradley can pull his hand back, Colin finds himself pushing his own half-drunk tea across the table. Bradley shoots him a grateful glance and takes a sip of the cooled drink. He makes a half-gagging, half-choking noise almost as soon as it hits his lips though, and Colin frowns. “What is it?”

            “Christ,” Bradley pushes the drink back across the table and scrunches his face up. “What _is_ that slop you’re drinking? It’s horrible.”

            “It’s Earl Grey,” Colin says slowly, wondering if Bradley has actually lost his mind.

            “And how many sugars did you put in there?” Bradley asks, judgmental. “It’s like drinking cake or something.”

            “It is not!” Colin insists, hugging his tea close to him defensively.

            “It really is,” says Bradley, as though he’s the top authority on tea.

            Colin cracks a smile, grateful that this little interlude has brightened the mood. He still needs to know why Bradley reacted to his sexuality so strangely, though, and from the look on his face, Bradley knows it.

            “Look, Colin…” he starts, then breaks off, frustrated. Colin gets the feeling that, whatever it is that’s bothering Bradley, whatever it is that made him act so strangely, is more about Bradley himself than about Colin.

            It makes him feel better, gets rid of the lingering doubt, and Colin just takes another sip of his tea, knowing, somehow, that Bradley will tell him when he’s ready.

            Sure enough, Bradley’s face steels in resolve only a few seconds later. “Thing is, Cols, I’ve had a bit of a crush on you for a while now,” he admits.

            Colin just blinks at him, because there’s no _way_ that Bradley actually just said that.

            It seems that once the words start flowing out of Bradley, they can’t be stopped. “I wasn’t going to say anything, obviously, because you’re my patient, and holy _shit_ , that’s inappropriate, but I couldn’t stop myself from… _reacting_ when you said you liked men.”

            Colin still can’t speak. Sure, he’d been attracted to Bradley from the beginning, sure, he’d even fantasized a little, but never, even for a single second, had he ever thought that Bradley could be attracted to _him_.

            Bradley apparently takes Colin’s silence as an invitation to keep babbling. “I mean, it’s not like I’m going to _do_ anything, of course, and I don’t want this to change our professional relationship at all, because I really do want to help you, and I _can’t_ do that if it’s all awkward, and -”

            Colin finally gets his voice back, which is a good thing, not least because Bradley’s babbling was getting irritating. “I have a bit of a crush on you, too,” he admits, and Bradley stops talking completely, thunderstruck.

            “I…You do?” he says, hopefully, but also sounding skeptical. As though it’s somehow ridiculous for _Colin_ to have a crush on _him_ , instead of the other way around.

            “Yes, really,” Colin answers, and the two of them sit there smiling like idiots at each other for a moment.

            Colin has never really done anything like this, confessed his attraction to someone else in such an explicit way. It’s embarrassing, yeah, how could it not be, but it’s also strangely freeing.

            Colin supposes he’s been learning the value of speaking his thoughts aloud, ever since he met Bradley.

            Now, it seems, it’s Bradley’s turn to be the reluctant one. His smile fades, and he says, quietly “That’s great, Cols, but I’m still your therapist.”

            He’s pulling some pretty killer puppy-dog eyes, and Colin can’t help but bark out a laugh. Bradley looks affronted, as though he thinks Colin should take his complaints a bit more seriously.

            “Yes, you’re my _therapist_ , not my teacher or something,” Colin says, when he’s managed to stop laughing. “Christ, you’re making it seem like this is a pedo situation.”

            Bradley’s still hesitant, though there’s a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I suppose it would be alright for us to like, _see_ each other, if you find another therapist…” he says, slowly.

            Colin bites back another laugh at the emphasis Bradley puts on the word _see_. It makes him sound like he’s the dashing hero in a Jane Austen novel, and not in a good way. Colin doesn’t want to protest, though, because he thinks he’d be quite fine with _seeing_ Bradley.

            “All the other therapists in London are shit, though,” says Bradley decisively, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not sure if I can trust them with you.”

            “Do you know every therapist in London personally?” Colin asks, jokingly.

            “Yes. They’re all right twats,” Bradley answers.

            “Where did you meet? Is there some kind of convention? Do people dress up as Freud and Jung and such?”

            “Look at you, showing off your psychology knowledge,” Bradley laughs. “I don’t think a dress-up competition would be very successful though – only so many ways you can dress up as an old white guy with a beard, yeah?”

            Colin goes to answer, but Bradley’s eyes suddenly light up and he sits up in his chair as though he’s been stung. “I’ve got it!” he exclaims.

            Colin is utterly confused. “Got what?”

            “I know who your new therapist can be!” Bradley pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins scrolling furiously through the contact list.

            Colin, meanwhile, is having a bit of a crisis of confidence. They’ve been sort of joking about this for the last few minutes, ever since they confessed their feelings to each other, but it’s as though it hasn’t really registered until this moment. Bradley’s actively trying to find Colin a new therapist, one that he knows and trusts, because he can’t date Colin if Colin’s still his client.

            Because _he wants to date Colin_.

            As Bradley brings the phone to his ear, Colin attempts to calm down and think about this rationally. He doesn’t understand how Bradley could want to be with him, considering how much he knows about Colin’s disease. At the same time though, the thought is a relief. With any other bloke, one he’d picked up in a bar or whatever, Colin would have to constantly worry about trying to hide the weird shit he did, and, in the event that things got serious, he’d have to find a way to _tell_ that person.

            Who, let’s face it, probably wouldn’t understand.

            Colin’s snapped back into reality by Bradley snapping his fingers (quite rudely, really) in his face. Bradley’s phone is nowhere in sight, so he’s presumably already finished his conversation.

            As soon as Bradley has Colin’s attention, he starts talking. “So that was Richard, who was one of my professors back at Uni, and he’s been doing some clinical work since he stopped teaching. He’s agreed to take you on.” Bradley’s smile is brighter than the sun, but Colin has to check one more time, before he can be certain that this is the right decision for him. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

            “About what?”

            “About..Y’know, _seeing_ me. I mean, it’s gonna be hard, what with my disease and all, you _know_ I’m not really close to being healed yet, and I -”

            Bradley cuts Colin off. “The OCD doesn’t define you, Cols,” he says softly. “You’re so much more than that. All I want, for right now, is to get to know you better as a person, instead of a patient. We’ll see where it goes from there, yeah?” Bradley stretches out an arm along the table, bringing it to rest alongside Colin’s now completely cold tea.

            Colin hesitates for the slightest second, before reaching out and entwining his fingers with Bradley. “Yeah.”

***

            Two months later, Colin’s sitting in the living room of Richard’s house, waiting for Richard to finish making tea.

            He and Richard had gotten on instantly, (not like he and _Bradley_ had gotten on, of course, because Richard’s old enough to be Colin’s grandfather) and had long since decided to hold their sessions in Richard’s house, instead of the cold, impersonal space he rented out for his office.

            Colin had found that, after Bradley’s, he’d been pretty much ruined for any sort of traditional office environment, feeling tense and uncomfortable without being surrounded by quirky décor.

            Luckily, Richard, over a lifetime of academia and bachelorhood, has adopted a strange style of his own. Unlike the antique-looking pieces that had decorated Bradley’s office (Colin had convinced him to redecorate, after Bradley had revealed that the place still looked exactly the same as when he’d starting renting it), Richard’s house is mostly decorated by books, with the occasional gift from a student or patient lying around. This means that the table beside the armchair in which Colin is sitting has a lava lamp on it, which has been a source of endless amusement for him since he started coming here.

            As Colin contemplates his surroundings, Richard comes into the room, carrying two steaming mugs and with his glasses perched atop his head. He hands one of the mugs to Colin, who accepts it with a quiet “Thank you,” and settles into his regular armchair.

            Colin’s nervous, because today, Richard is insisting that they begin using more aggressive measures to treat his OCD. Sure, Colin’s come a long way since the first time that he stepped into Bradley’s office, but he’s not cured. Far from it, in fact.

            He still has trouble getting his brain to shut up, still needs to touch things in a certain way: in short, he still has all the symptoms that he had three months ago.

            What’s changed is that he has them less. Some days, Colin finds himself going hours without ruminating on obsessive thoughts, hours without performing compulsions.

            Of course, a lot of this is due to the amount of time he spends with Bradley, who’s become quite proficient in noticing when Colin goes just that little bit quieter, retreats into his head, and has a habit of bothering Colin until he does a thought record worksheet to calm him down.

            From what Richard had said last session, though, they would be doing something a little more extreme than thought record worksheets today.

            Richard takes a long sip of his tea and fixes his eyes on Colin. “Are you ready?” he asks. He doesn’t bother with any sort of preamble, because he knows that waiting around will only make Colin more nervous.

            Best to just jump into it.

            “Are you planning on telling me what we’re doing?” Colin replies, only half-joking.

            In response, Richard gestures Colin closer to his own chair.

            Colin goes, an uneasy feeling twisting deep in his stomach. Richard’s never this secretive: the only reason that Colin can think that he’d be acting like this is if he thinks Colin will freak out.

            Just that thought is making Colin freak out.

            Colin reaches Richard’s chair, and Richard says “Go stand behind it,” mildly, but with a hint of steel to his voice.

            Colin does, and then Richard reaches up and hands him a butcher’s knife.

            Colin takes it before he really registers what it is, and once he has it in his hand, he freezes in fear. It’s possibly the biggest knife he’s ever seen, certainly the biggest he’s ever held, and it’s polished to a shine that he can see his own face in. He doesn’t want to test it out, but the edges look sharp enough to slice skin with no problem. “What do you want me to do with this?” Colin asks, mouth dry. He doesn’t think he’s ever dreaded anything more than he’s dreading Richard’s answer.

            “I want you to hold it to my throat,” Richard answers, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.

            Colin doesn’t react outwardly to the words, but the inside of his head is a whirl of activity.

            He can’t do this. He _can’t_. What if his hand slips, without his control, letting the knife bite into Richard’s flesh?

            It’s so vivid he can almost picture it, the quiet _snick_ of the knife, the slight resistance of the skin, the gurgling noise it would make as the red, red blood oozed out of the gash, the way Richard would slip out of his armchair and onto the floor…

            He’ll _die_. Colin will _kill_ him.

            Colin finds himself moving away from Richard’s armchair as quickly as possible, until his back is pressed to the wall. He wants to drop the knife, or throw it, but he _can’t_ , it’ll hit Richard, or himself, and they’ll _die_ …

            Richard’s voice cuts through the fog in Colin’s brain, perfectly calm and clear. “Can you rank your anxiety for me?” he asks.

            Colin can’t remember ever feeling worse than this. “100 percent,” he gasps out, still staring at the knife.

            “Sit with it,” Richard instructs, still calm. “Tell me when it drops down below 75.”

            Colin takes a deep breath and does his best to follow Richard’s instructions, attempting to just exist in the feeling, without trying to get rid of it or justify it.

            It’s hard, of course it is, and every few seconds he finds himself trying to find something, anything, as a distraction. He doesn’t, though, and he feels the anxiety slowly dropping.

            He remembers something he’d heard Bradley say once, when he was discussing something he called ‘Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy’:

            “ _The thing about anxiety, is it’s not something that can be maintained at the same level over a long period of time. No matter what, there’s always going to be a natural drop. What we want to do with this kind of therapy is make patients feel really anxious, then not let them perform any compulsions until the anxiety level naturally drops. It can help patients realize that they don’t need their compulsions to feel better, and reduce their dependence on the compulsions.”_

Colin remembers commenting that it sounded like a cruel thing to do to someone, and now, he can confirm that it definitely is.

            “It’s below 75,” he finally says, tearing his eyes away from the knife.

            Richard, who hasn’t moved in the eternity that Colin’s been struggling with himself, gives him a reassuring smile. “Good,” he says. “I think we might need to build up to you actually holding it to my throat, but this is a good start. Sit back down, please.”

            Colin obeys, feeling a slight spike in his anxiety as he moves closer to Richard. He resists the temptation to move back to the wall, though, and is finally able to sink back into his armchair. He’s almost obscenely grateful; his legs feel like they’re made of jelly. “That was _mean_ ,” he complains, shooting Richard a betrayed look.

            “Would you have agreed to do it if I had told you about it beforehand?” Richard asks, raising one eyebrow impossibly high.

            “No,” Colin admits. “But _still_.”

            Richard laughs. “So, I trust you understand why I’m doing this?” he’s smirking a little bit, because Richard finds it hilarious to tease Colin about his relationship with Bradley.

            “I have some idea,” Colin says.

            “Good. I do get tired of having to explain it to people. Can you rate your anxiety for me again?” Unlike Bradley, Richard doesn’t write any records of their sessions. It had thrown Colin off at first, because he didn’t understand how he could remember anything about his patients if he didn’t have it written.

            Richard apparently has some sort of photographic memory, or something, because he hasn’t forgotten a detail of their sessions yet. “It’s at about a…45?” Colin answers, entirely sure that Richard will remember the detail.

            Richard smiles. “Do you want to give me the knife back now?” he asks, and Colin blinks, having forgotten that he was still holding it.

            Judging by the knowing smirk on Richard’s face, he had guessed as much, and, as Colin leans over and hands him the knife back, Richard says “That’s progress.”

            It is indeed, and Colin’s smiling as he shakes hands with Richard and walks outside.

            He’s proud of himself, and besides, he’s going to see Bradley later.

_But even if everything else turns to dirt_

_We’ll be the one thing in this world that won’t hurt_

_I can’t fix what’s fucked up. But one thing I know I can do_

_I can be perfect for you_

-          _“Perfect for You” from Next to Normal _

**Author's Note:**

> The definitions of compulsions and obsessions, as well as the categories of obsession and compulsion that Bradley asks about, come from the Yale-Brown Obsessive Compulsive scale, or Y-BOCS, which is the test that most doctors and psychologists use to diagnose and assess the severity of a patient’s OCD. It can be found online [here](http://www.stlocd.org/handouts/YBOC-Symptom-Checklist.pdf). 
> 
> The 'homework' that Bradley gives Colin is a Thought Record Sheet, which some OCD patients use to record their obsessive thoughts. A blank example worksheet can be found [here](http://www.getselfhelp.co.uk/docs/ThoughtRecordSheet.pdf).
> 
> An overview of Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy can be found [here](http://www.ocfoundation.org/CBT.aspx).


End file.
